Nights at Gerald's Cafe
by Cu Chulainn 1945
Summary: It's 1985, and things are lonely for a young man trying to work his way through Oxford on third shift. Luckily, Nick's used to being alone - for now, that is.
1. Chapter 1

Scholarships could only get so far, and Nicholas Rush was not one to accept charity in any case. At Oxford, he was known as the young and troubled genius, the man who would either shine like the sun or burn out completely.

Here at Gerald's, a dinky all-night café on the bad side of town, he was known as the waiter.

The waiter on third shift.

Sighing, Nick leaned against the counter and watched as cars - but no walkers, never any walkers - passed by outside. It was one a.m. In Gerald's, it was just Nick and Kenny, who made the sandwiches and was currently asleep.

Nick was rarely idle - a violent childhood had created a burning nature in him, and working at a café was not his ideal situation. But then again, Oxford was an expensive university, and he needed funds somehow. He just wished it came from something like … like being a hitman. A math-themed hitman. See, that would be cool.

… And that was why Nick was never idle.

Shaking the stupid thoughts from his head, he turned and watched the door, wishing for the umpteenth time that he was just allowed to read at work. Was it really so much to ask? A textbook or two to memorize on night shift would be lovely, if his manager wasn't such a dick.

Sighing, Nick lowered his head and kneaded his temples. When he looked up, there was someone just outside the door.

His eyes widened.

Then the little bell above the door rang out and the woman entered. She was blonde and graceful, wearing nicer clothes than Nick ever had - but she was also carrying something bulky, a case of some sort, and she was barefoot, which was technically against the rules.

Nick found himself not caring. He went over to take her order.

"Chai," she said simply. "With a honey swirl."

Honey.

A woman after his own heart.

Nick slid behind the counter, suddenly very aware of his uniform, and wondering if the tie and vest made him look dashing or if they just looked cheap. Remembering what the vindictive teachers at secondary school had said, he straightened his shoulders and tried to fix his posture.

Hell, it was late.

He poured the tea and made his way back over to where the woman sat, depositing her cup with a murmured, "there you are" and retreating to a table close to his work station, trying not to watch her.

She didn't drink her tea. She was staring at a program of some sort, printed on blue paper, and her fingers were ghosting over the case at her side.

After a few minutes, Nick's thoughts drifted away. He looked out the large, wide windows to the rainy streets and snorted. He didn't envy the woman - if she walked home barefoot, she was in for one hell of a walk. Oxford wasn't known for its clean pavement.

Behind him - at the woman's table - he heard some low clicking noises and didn't turn around. He rested his chin on his palm and briefly wondered if he should ask her out.

_Her clothes are tailor-fit_, a nasty voice inside his head reminded him. Nick glanced down at his own clothes - a bargain-basement dress shirt and the company-issue tie and vest.

Oh, well. He could dream.

He settled then for looking out the window, and his eyelids were just beginning to droop when the sound of a violin struck through the café. Nick jumped and turned around, unable to believe where the music was coming from, but knowing it could be almost nothing else.

The woman was playing the violin.

And she still hadn't touched her tea.

Quietly, Nick left his seat and headed over, his footsteps clashing with the music - which was really lovely, actually. Really lovely. Professional-sounding.

He sat across from her, but her eyes remained on the bow and strings until the piece was done. Then she lowered the violin a little and Nick found himself clapping. Finally, her eyes were on him.

"I'd give you a standing ovation," he said, "but then I'd just feel silly."

She grinned.

"Are you in the orchestra, then?" Nick asked. She nodded, then stuck out her hand.

"I'm Gloria," she said.

"Nick."

Gloria pulled her hand away, sipped her tea – Nick was certain it was cold by now – and stared at the table pensively.

"You don't look very happy about it," Nick noted, getting her attention. "The orchestra."

"Oh." She smiled ruefully. "Yes."

They were silent. Nick looked at her invitingly, and after a moment she gave a relenting little laugh.

"The conductor likes me," she explained, "a little too much, if you know what I mean."

Nick raised his eyebrows and leaned forward conspiratorially.

"I have the same problem," he stage-whispered, jabbing a thumb in Kenny's direction. Gloria followed his gaze, then her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling giggles.

"What's it like?" asked Nick when she was more composed.

"What?" she asked. "Working in the orchestra?"

He'd meant something more like 'what's it like to be high-class?' but what she said would do. He nodded.

"It's OK," Gloria shrugged. "I love music, and it's fun to play, but … it does get a little stressful sometimes."

"It sounds amazing," Nick replied. Gloria raised an eyebrow at him, and belatedly he gestured toward her violin. "Your playing, I mean. Not working in the orchestra."

Gloria smiled. "What about you, Nick?" she asked with an expansive gesture that swept across the café. "What's it like working at Gerald's?"

Nick paused. "Oh, it's very sophisticated," he said airily. "Gerald's only takes the very best, you see, since we fraternize with so many bigwigs. Margaret Thatcher. The queen. You know, the usuals."

He watched as Gloria forced back another laugh and gave him an arch look instead. "And what qualifies you to work at Gerald's, Sir Nick?"

She was playing along.

Bloody hell, women never played along with his sarcasm.

"I," said Nick, splaying his fingers across his chest, "am currently earning my doctorate at Oxford University."

"Oh, really?" Gloria teased.

"Oh, yes."

She shook her head. "Well, then, what brings you, such a learned man, to work at Gerald's, hm, Sir Nick?"

"Prestige," said Nick instantly, surprising another laugh out of Gloria. "Of course. But other than that –" He pulled a long face. "Poverty, my dear."

For a moment, he thought he'd made things uncomfortable again. Then a slow, absolutely charmed smile spread across Gloria's face, and Nick couldn't believe his luck.

"Well, Nick," said Gloria, "if you're that strapped for cash, I'm sure we could work something out."

She reached down and hauled her violin case up onto the table, opening it briefly and looking inside.

"I'm in need of an accompanist," she said, voice never losing that soft cadence it had. "Can you play the piano?"

"Of course," said Nick. He'd never touched a piano in his life.

Gloria's smile grew more vibrant.

"Here," she said, taking a business card from her case and scribbling down an address. "Come here on Friday. We'll set you up."

Before handing Nick the card, she flipped it over and showed him the other side.

"That's my number," she said lowly. "Call me."

Nick nodded, suddenly struck mute, and Gloria paid him for her tea and left. Nick sat there for a moment, staring at the card.

He didn't have a phone, and he had a week to learn the piano, and all for the sake of some uptown socialite who normally wouldn't spare him a glance. The kind of girl he'd taken pains to bring to tears when he was just a kid.

Nick was in love.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're crazy," said a voice in Nick's head that sounded very much like the history teacher at his old Catholic school in Scotland – the one for kids who got kicked out of regular schools.

"Mr. Kilpatrick," Nick breathed as he wedged the crowbar between two slats of wood, "now is not the time."

The old music store he'd found was seedier than most – especially since Nick suspected most music stores weren't seedy. It was sequestered deep in the bad side of town, and though it wasn't closed it was perpetually _closing_.

The windows were broken and unevenly boarded up.

The door didn't fit the frame.

There were four instruments inside and no furniture.

But that didn't matter, Nick told himself sternly. The point was, they had a piano and they had instruction booklets.

And most importantly, no cameras or alarms.

Nick pried off one of the boards. It splintered from the window and flopped onto the street, baring a hole in the glass that was best described as Nick-sized. He tossed the crowbar into the grass and hauled himself inside, ignoring the little shards of glass that poked at him when he crawled through.

Break-in Rule Number One: Always wear long sleeves.

It helps with glass.

With a fairly noiseless tumble, Nick landed on the ground and stood, dusting off his clothes and scanning the very, very dark store. He saw the glint of brass from a saxophone hanging on the wall, and then caught sight of what he was truly after.

The piano.

Hell, he hoped it was tuned.

* * *

"Mr. Rush."

Major triads, minor triads, augmented and diminished triads. Arpeggios and root notes, altered fifths and intervals. Nick had read every single bloody music book inside that store and he had spent his morning with a keyboard in the library, with all of Oxford's available sheet music spread out before him. He was so tired.

"Mr. Rush."

Pedal point chords, extended chords, clusters, polychords. And Rush wasn't sure he needed any of those in order to play Mary Had a Little Lamb. Not that he'd be asked to play that at the orchestra – though he'd been pleasantly surprised to get that one right on his first try, even without the sheet music. Maybe he had an ear for this?

"Mr. Rush!"

Nick's head snapped up.

"Huh?" he said. Professor Stanley's face was a horrible shade of purple and he was standing barely a foot away.

"_If _you would be so kind to join us," the professor snarled. Nick scoffed and looked back down at his music.

He didn't really need to pay attention in Topology, anyway.

"What are you _doing_?" the professor asked, exasperated. He snatched one of the booklets off Nick's desk, holding it out in front of him like it might be diseased.

Asshole.

"Mathematicians are known for their musical proclivities," said Nick. Professor Stanley glared.

"And will music help you with Topology?" he asked snidely. Nick shrugged.

"Tchaikovsky knew an awful lot about stretching."

There was a long pause.

"OK," said Professor Stanley. He pointed to the door. "Get out."

* * *

It was no big loss. Skipping Topology gave him an additional sixty minutes for practicing, and when he played hooky for Number Theory and Applied Probability as well, he was basically home-free.

Until his fingers started bleeding.

"Oh, this is _not cool_!" Nick hissed, blowing on his fingers and searching 'round his tiny flat for bandaids. "I thought this only happened with guitar."

Eventually, he settled for sucking on his fingers until they dried out, then went back to playing.

"Did you seriously skip three classes today?" said the voice that sounded like Mr. Kilpatrick. "What happened to the little boy who said he'd be a 'fucking mathematician' if he had to 'fucking' kill himself?"

"What's it look like I'm doing now?" Nick demanded, smearing blood over the keys. He swore and looked for a rag.

"Killing yourself," Mr. Kilpatrick admitted. Nick nodded.

"Good. Now shut up and go be someone else's mother. I've got work to do."

Mr. Kilpatrick slowly faded away.

* * *

It was Thursday. The day Nick had to call Gloria and tell her he would be there. The day he had to decide whether she'd really, really meant for him to call her in … well, _that _way.

Nick wasn't one to doubt himself. Doubting was a job for other people to do. The Socratic Method and all.

And did it really count as doubting oneself if it was a separate personality doing all the work?

"You're poor, she's rich," said Mr. Kilpatrick. "She's cultured. She's dignified. You, Nicky, are a dirty and impoverished, coarse kid from the ghetto. When was your first gang fight? Who was the first person you ever tried to stab? You think she'd go for someone like you?"

"Girls like bad boys," Nick muttered with a smirk. As if to prove his point, he plucked 5p for the payphone out of a homeless man's cup and kept walking. He could just see Mr. Kilpatrick glaring at him. Ha! Old bastard.

Nick made it three steps before turning around and dropping the coin back in the cup, along with the pound he'd made in tips.

"I saw that," Mr. Kilpatrick sang.

"Shut up."

Nick stifled his old teacher's voice and headed to the phone booth, where a filthy old payphone hung off the receiver on a wire. He stepped inside, pushed some change into the slot, and punched in Gloria's number. He'd memorized it the night he'd met her.

Holding his breath, Nick stood inside the box of streaked glass walls and waited, listening painfully to every ring.

_Pick up_, he willed her, lips moving silently. _Pick up, pick up_.

Click.

"Hello?"

Nick's heart stopped. The voice on the other end was gruff and male, British and peeved.

"H-hello?" he said. "Is … Gloria there?"

"Gloria _who_?"

Shit. She'd given him her work number – and apparently, more than one Gloria worked for the orchestra.

"The violinist?" Nick guessed. There was a stifled sigh and he heard distant shouting on the other end. Then the phone clattered and a sweet, familiar voice sounded in his ear.

"Hello?"

"Gloria, it's Nick."

"Oh! Nick! Are you coming tomorrow?"

"Of course. Of course."

A work number. A _work_ number! His heart was crushed.

"I'll see you there," said Gloria.

"I told you so," said Mr. Kilpatrick.

Nick swallowed.

"Bye," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: So this took a while. This chapter goes out to wintersmith and ... er ... I'm sorry, I have to check for your name. WeBe. Because you two are the most recent who asked for an update, and therefore the only ones I remember XD A re-cap: in the last chapter, Nick learned to pay the piano so he could be Gloria's accompanist. Then he called her ... and found out she gave him her work phone instead of her cell. Sadness ensued.**

**Some quick things. 1) Rush's "GET OUT" speech to Volker is one of my favorite things ever in the series, hence everything that follows.**

**2) For those of you who don't remember (probably all) Mr. Kilpatrick is a voice in Rush's head that tells him helpful things. It is based off a teacher or some shit. It's been like twelve years since I last wrote for this fic. Hell if I remember.**

**3) Up there, on the line above this, I accidentally put 'fuc' instead of 'fic'. I should've kept it.**

**And 4) My celebratory dance for finally doing another chapter was to the tune of Booty Jam by my favorite parodists, the Key of Awesome. Check 'em out.**

**OK. Enjoy.**

* * *

She doesn't want you. Short-short-short-long. She was leading you on, just messing with you. Short-short-short-looooong. It's what rich people do, Nick, it's what keeps them entertained. Short-short-short-short, short-short-short-short, short-short-short-long! It's what gives 'em their kicks. Short-short-short—

"Nick," Kenny snapped, "would you put the fuckin' keyboard up?"

Shattered out of his thoughts, Nick only looked up and stared blankly into space.

"It's givin' me a fuckin' headache," Kenny griped.

"Sorry."

"_Fine_. Just-"

"It's Beethoven's Fifth."

"Yeah, jolly fuckin' good," snapped Kenny. He bent forward, leaning his weight into the spatula as he scraped grease from the stove. "Just, whatever it is, stop _playin'_ it."

"OK."

He pushed the keyboard away, still staring. On the periphery of his vision he could see Kenny heaving his arms back and forth, trying to clean the old restaurant appliances. On any other day he'd be full of thousands of sarcastic, biting remarks. Now he could barely manage something like 'you fatass.' It just wasn't worth it.

"Gimme a hand?" asked Kenny, managing to convey a world of used-up patience in his voice. Nick rose slowly, hands hanging limply at his sides. He didn't even bother to straighten his uniform. With a ringing clang, Kenny threw the spatula down and faced Nick in exasperation.

"OK, look," he said, "you wanna tell me what's fucking wrong?"

"Eh?" said Nick, startled.

"_You_! There's something _wrong_ with you! You're being all fucking – _weird_, and quiet! Stop it."

"Sorry," Nick said. Kenny pointed a large, accusing finger at him.

"And that! Apologizing! You don't _apologize_."

"You barely know me, Kenny," said Nick, beginning to sound annoyed. Kenny threw two jiggling hands into the air.

"For fuck's sake, if this is about that girl—" he started. Nick cut in stridently, loud and defensive.

"What fuckin' girl?"

"The girl who was in here –"

"There was no fuckin' girl!"

Rolling his eyes, Kenny just threw his hands up again and turned away. Really annoyed now – red-faced, one vein twitching in his forehead – Nick clenched his fists. Clench. Release. Clench. Release.

_You're about to blow a gasket, son_, said Mr. Kilpatrick. The steam decompressed and oozed out Nick's ears, leaving him cool and almost calm.

"Look," he said, voice mostly under control, "if you want my help—"

"I don't," said Kenny snootily.

"I'm _trying_ to help," Nick snapped. "For fuck's sake, I'm Oxford-educated, I think I can clean a stove!"

"Oh, and I can't?" Kenny retorted.

"Why the hell are you so pissy today?!"

"_I'm_ pissy!" Kenny roared.

"YES! You're fucking pissy!"

"Oh, that's it!" said Kenny. He jabbed his spatula at the door, face red and contorted. "Out!"

Nick faltered. "What?"

"Get out!"

Truly apologetic now – it had all been his fault anyway, hadn't it, he'd been all depressed since calling Gloria – Nick tried to take the spatula. "No, I'm sorry, I'll do it—"

"Too fucking late!" Kenny cried. "Too _fucking_ late! Get out!"

"You can't just throw me out! You _need_ me here! I'm the waiter!"

"You're SACKED!" Kenny thundered. He slapped the spatula down. "I don't need a fucking Oxford-educated waiter! I'll find _another_ fucking waiter! Just _stop_ playing your keyboard, _stop_ fucking reminiscing about some _girl_, and GET THE HELL OUT!"

Nick stared at him, shoulders tense. Kenny's breath was coming raggedly, each pant angry and almost a growl. He wielded the spatula like some holy weapon.

"So ... that's it?" Nick asked, the tension in his shoulders draining. "I'm fired?"

Kenny merely turned around and faced the stove again.

"Come on, Ken," Nick pleaded. He came up behind the other man, stepping softly, looking over his shoulder. He couldn't see Kenny's face. "This is my only job. I need this."

Kenny turned his head a little and Nick caught sight of the surly glare.

"Ken," Nick said, putting a hand on Kenny's shoulder. It was shrugged off. "Ken, man –"

"Just take a day off," said Kenny roughly. "No pay."

Nick waited.

"But you can keep your job."

"Aw, thanks, man. Really. I won't let you down again."

Kenny nodded, just a hint of a smile – rueful and embarrassed – on his face.

_Ignorant rube_, Nick thought.

* * *

**AN: Kenny has ... problems ... at home. He ... he doesn't lead a good life.**

**...**


	4. Chapter 4

The orchestra hall – well, the place where they played instruments, whatever they called it – was impressive. It was big, pristine, dark. The windows were so tinted they were black; the walls were a deep mahogany. But despite its solemn exterior, which seemed to forbid sound or interruption, the hall was filled with noise.

People bustled around and ran into him like he wasn't there. They didn't apologize or send him apologetic looks – but Nick was used to that. They all wore fancy clothes; suits, dresses, whatever, all in various states of dishevelment. One man with an aristocratic nose and a Londonderry accent was barking out upbraidings to a young man with a cello. Grimacing, Nick made his way past them and into the area behind stage.

It was dark. Instruments sat alone in the dark amongst torrents of loose sheet music. The floor was scuffed and dirty, in utter contrast to the rest of the hall. There were people back here too, smoking and muttering to each other amongst the dangling ropes and old un-repaired spotlights. Nick's stomach pinched in toward his spine; he hadn't eaten all day, and the nervousness was making him ravenous. His fingers were sweating, itching to play. He'd have to take the bandaids off, most likely. He wondered if the people here would care.

"Nick?"

He turned around, eyes sharp.

"Hey, buddy." A man with a thick American accent bumped into him, putting a hand on Nick's shoulder, pushing him back. "You the one I told to get a sandwich?"

"Eh?" said Nick. Someone to his left, tall and thin and dark, blew out a cloud of smoke. It choked off his breath and vision.

"My sandwich, mate," the American said. He thumped his hand down near Nick's neck, acting big and forceful. The man was about as small and scrawny as Nick himself. "I asked for a sandwich."

"Nick!"

Twisting his neck, Nick ignored the other man and looked behind him, eyes darting around the stage. It was too crowded, too dark. He couldn't see her – and fuck it all, if she could see him, why the hell couldn't she come over here and save him from the brute?!

"Look," he said to the American, his own accent thickening, "_mate_, ahm no' a busboy, OK? Ye kin go an' get your ain sandwich."

The American put his hands up, turning away with the wide-eyed expression of someone who knows they're in the right but who gives up the battle anyway. Nick didn't spare him another glance. He shoved through a cluster of men before him and made his way to the piano, where he clambered onto the ripped old vinyl seat. Above the heads of everyone else – and just above the clouds of smoke – he gazed out into the poorly-lit room.

And lost his balance.

And fell on the keys.

The room went silent – Nick's elbows came down hard and struck loud, discordant notes. His feet pistoned out, heels dug into the vinyl, and the seat he was standing on went with them. His elbows slipped; his legs stretched out before him, no longer providing balance; first his back, then his head hit the keyboard. Finally, losing traction of the vinyl and struggling to get off the old piano, he fell beneath it to the floor.

Stars.

He just saw stars. Then—

"Are you OK?"

Laughter. Spinning vision.

"Someone help him up—"

Hands on him, tugging at him, pulling his arms away just when he put his weight on them—

"Nick?"

Nick blinked the stars away.

"Nick the waiter?"

He blinked again. Before him was a familiar face. Blonde hair, beautiful eyes, a concerned tilt to her eyebrows and a small smile at her lips. He shook his head, vision clearing. He gawked at her.

"It's me, Gloria," said Gloria, the smile faltering a little. "You can't have forgotten my face already!"

Unable to speak, Nick just shook his head again. He fumbled for words, suddenly convinced he should say something, suddenly panicked. The best he could come up with was ramblings about functions and domains. Hell, he sees a pretty woman and all he can think of is lines!

"Right!" he managed eventually, and then his mind went blank again. Gloria grinned.

"All right?" she asked.

"Right! Yes! All right!" He nodded, grinning too as she helped up. "Yes, fine. Thank you."

"You took an awful spill."

"I was looking for you."

She didn't answer; Nick resisted the urge to smack himself in the face. What a thing to blurt out!

_Well, it's better than saying you got up there to look tall_, Mr. Kilpatrick reasoned.

Good point.

She led him to the conductor then. She chattered a little as they walked – "You'll love Mr. Cotter, Nick, he's brilliant, he oversees all the new additions" – but Nick didn't say a word. When they reached the illustrious man, he only looked Nick up and down. Then, looking bored, he glanced at Gloria.

"This is Nick," she said brightly, clutching his arm.

Mr. Cotter looked at Nick again. Queasily, Nick smiled back.

"Mr. Cotter writes the music that we play," Gloria explained. "He's a composer and his pieces are absolutely gorgeous. Have you heard his Quartet for the Apocalypse?"

"Of course," said Nick.

_Liar_, said Mr. Kilpatrick.

"Can you play it?" asked Mr. Cotter, his first – and rather rude-sounding – words. Nick hesitated.

"Er ..."

Gloria looked at him expectantly.

"Well, no," Nick admitted.

"I should think not," said Mr. Cotter. "It's all in string."

_Now who feels stupid_? Mr. Kilpatrick asked.

_I do_, Nick replied. _Shut up_.

He shifted, very aware of Gloria's hand on his arm. Mr. Cotter was simply sitting with his arms crossed, as if thinking deeply. Finally, he looked back up at them. He had a lined, severe face – the kind that promised hardship.

"Get on the piano," he said to Nick. To Gloria: "Fetch him the music for Dewatha. See how well he plays."

Nick hurried to the piano. Gloria went off in another direction – when he'd sat and pulled the stool closer to the piano, she scuttled over and arranged papers on the little ledge. Nick squinted at it, then looked down at the piano. He pressed some keys.

Out of tune.

With a newly pensive expression, he looked back up at Cotter, who was staring at him with the same severe blankness Nick had come to expect. He looked at the music, took a deep breath.

With his eyes firmly on the sheet before him, he started to play.


End file.
